The Falmer King
by DovakhiinDreaming
Summary: Lark, newly proclaimed King of the Falmer, just wants to see the world burn. And luckily, the dovah within him, Kruziik-Thur-Nah, agrees. Together, they will shake the world from its slumber and tear it apart- or die trying.
1. Chapter 1

_Beware of the boy-_

_A boy of fallen snow,_

_the Falmer king, the Falmer king!_

_He dwells deep down below_

_but one day he will awake_

_and all of the world will quake_

_the trees will scream, the earth shall shake_

_and blizzards shall reign supreme-_

_There won't be you, or I, or me_

_just the Falmer, and the king!_

~ Ballads of the Fallen, Pt 1

* * *

Darkness. That was all he remembered, and a sense of knowing. His limbs seemed longer, somehow. More pronounced. Something damp brushed against his lips. He tried to move, but felt a weight pressing down on him, holding him down, tethering him in place. His fingers twitched.

_"He's waking, waking he is." _

There was a flurry of movement, and his eyes rolled wildly from beneath the eyelids. They seemed heavy, too heavy to open. A groan escaped his throat, and he turned his head to the side. There was a smell of rotting meat, with a hint of gleam blossom- the smells, after so much of absence of it, overrode his senses, and he sneezed.

_"Prepare him his Chaurus, his Chaurus to be prepared."_

Silence. Blissful, quiet, silence. Perhaps he could sleep at last.

And then, pain; excruciating, mind numbing pain.

And he awoke- with a scream.

* * *

Lark gazed into his reflection, not comprehending. Using gleamblossom for light, he peered into the puddle closer.

This could not be right. This face, it did not match his mind. It was his face, but it was much too young. By the gods, he looked about four. Blue eyes, large on his face, dwarfing his other features. Pale, smooth, white skin, having never seen the light. Cobweb blonde hair, almost white, so long it brushed against the base if his spine.

"How long was I asleep?" He asked in Falmer-tongue. His voice was raspy from years of abandonment- these were his first words.

A shaman crouched next to him, entranced by his hair. Her bony fingers grasped the silky strands almost longingly.

"76 years, years of 76." She said finally.

"Why am I so young? Look at me. I'm a child." He spat, disgusted. His face was one of quiet rage, and he looked truly menacing.

He focused his gaze on the shaman, who seem embarrassed.

"Unsure, unsure. Wrong something went?"

Lark got up, brushed himself off. His reflection sickened him, but he realized it could be worse. After all, he could have came out looking like her; with no hair, no eyes. Granted, he looked like a child, but this would change.

"Something went very wrong. Who is it that put me asleep? I seem to have forgotten," He said, looking down at his short legs. It would take him ages to get anywhere at this rate. He glanced over at a Chaurus Reaper and groaned- no doubt he'd have to ride that creature. The giant insect chattered incoherently and waved it's mandibles, before bowing low to the ground, as if acknowledging his birthright.

This one was abnormally large, he realized, as he tossed one leg over and straddled it's back. Lark winced at the feel of plated armor beneath him.

The Shaman reached over and made as if to touch his hair once more, and all at once, he felt disgusted at this creature. Without giving it much thought, he backhanded her, with such a violent rage that her entire head turned, and the smack echoed throughout the cave.

The Shaman hissed, gripping her cheek, but she did not retaliate.

"Touch me again, Falmer, and I will show you what fear tastes like," Lark said calmly. "Now, lead the way."

It got annoying, fast. Every falmer he passed reached out as he passed, muttering to themselves, and laid gleamblossoms, chitins, and rubies at his feet. He couldn't slap every one of them, since they quickly learned to touch and back away; and he didn't have much of a reach. This irritated him, not being able to properly dish out punishments.

After a good number had seen him, the shaman lead him to a river and bathed him, scrubbing his body with soap made from poisonblooms, blossoms, and glowing mushrooms, and then cut his long hair with a dagger. Greedy hands reached out for the fallen strands, and Lark didn't bother to stop them.

Following this, they dressed him. All of their armor was far too large for him, and Lark sure as shit wasn't putting on some clothes from a desecrated corpse. So he walked around naked, his pale skin giving him an otherworldly glow.

And finally, finally, they lead him to a secret place- The Forgotten Vale. The falmer didn't wish to leave sharpslope cave, rather, they looked worriedly out from it. Disgusted at their cowardice, Lark left them behind and entered the sun for the first time.

Bright, too bright. Cold, too cold. Too much of everything- he sneezed.

"That's not much of an entrance, little brother. So much for the King of Falmer!"

Lark shielded his eyes from the harsh light and looked towards the voice, grimacing. And who was it? None other than Arch-Curate Vrythur, keeper of Auriel's Bow.

He explained everything, as they walked across the ice. It was perilously thin, and Lark wondered what was beneath it.

"You see, you remained physically four because that's when you were put in a trance," The snow elf said. "Your mind, however, progressed normally. And now it is up to you to fulfill your destiny, little brother."

Lark glared up at him. "I am older than you. Remember that." The shorter snow-elf snapped, processing the information.

"Anyways, I really must get going now. Duty calls- I have a feeling in a few years, someone will come for the bow, towing a daughter of Coldharbour, and I must get to preparing. This is your world now, go seek your destiny and what not. The falmer only listens to you, do what you wish with them. What else, hmm? Oh yes. You'll be attacked very shortly, so I'd get ready."

And within seconds, the Elf had vanished, leaving Lark very irritated and very confused.

There was a tremble, beneath the ice. A soft one, but nevertheless, one Lark felt. Spurred to movement, he dashed to the side, wincing at the feel of ice shards dig into his soles.

There was a deafening crash, the sound of shattering ice, and fragments of light exploded everywhere. Up from the ice shot two dragons, taking to the sky at an ungodly speed.

And Lark was not afraid.

He felt aware of a power rising in his chest, and he felt a presence within him.

_Rise, _it told him._ Shout your battle cry to the heavens. Destroy them with your thu'um. Chase them through the sky, rake your claws down their scales, burn them alive._

"I can't do any of those things. I'm an elf," Lark muttered angrily, trying to resist the urge to flap his arms in an attempt to chase them down.

_We have done this before. Can you not remember? Shout, you ignorant child. I have been dormant inside you too long. Allow me to take over._

The two dragons circled above, roaring, but Lark knew they wouldn't do that for long.

_You have no weapons. Let me consume you! Feel my power. Let me free!_

Lark grit his teeth, heart pounding. Something told him this would be a bad, bad, idea. However, he didn't have any options. Damn his brother! He'd have his hide for this.

Taking a deep breath, Lark relinquished his body to the dovah within him.

_Finally! Free at last._

The Dovah within him took control of his throat, of his chest, of his limbs. Lark let out a fierce, alien battle cry, a deep bellow, trumpeting through the area, fire exploding from his mouth, flickering around his face- but he was unharmed. He shouted yet another roar- something that sounded like Strength, Dragon, Wrym, and immediately he was covered head to toe in dragon plated armor, glowing like a kindled flame.

Lark uttered a spell and at his side was suddenly a boneman. He didn't understand where the spell came from, but he wasn't complaining.

"Kill those things! Or at least get them to land," The snow elf commanded, in a voice that was not his own. He felt like a specter, watching this all from afar. It was too surreal.

The skeleton drew a bow and began to shoot with startling precision. Hot red blood fell to the earth, melting the ice.

A dragon began it's ascent, before finally landing against the ice. Lark, against his will, charged forward, summoning two blades into his hands.

_Uhg. Your body is so small. And these weapons are... How do I say it in your tongue? Terrible. But it will have to do._ The dovah complained.

"Shut up and kill the thing!" Lark snapped, leaping across the slippery ice, crossing entire holes in bounds.

_If you're going to be so demanding, why don't you do it?_

And just as quickly as it came, the presence left, silenced. The Dragon Aspect armor faded, and the boneman collapsed in a pile of ash. All that was left was Lark, naked, with two purple swords.

His mind came to two conclusions very quickly- he could run, and have a chance at being chased down and eaten alive, or try to kill it, or tame it, and have an even larger chance at being eaten alive.

Lark jumped to the side, barely avoiding a torrent of frost breath, and began the very risky task of mounting the dragon at the base of his head, where neither flame or ice from his maw could do harm, and raised his sword.

**"Drolack! I submit, I submit, Dovahkiin."** The dragon said, rolling a giant eye up to face him. Lark paused- this wasn't what he was expecting. There was a roar from above, and the other dragon slammed into the ground, snapping it's jaws angrily.

_"You were always a coward, Voslaarum. I should kill you myself. I cannot believe we are related, you sorry excuse for a Dovah!"_ This voice was feminine, higher pitched, but still deep and powerful.

Voslaarum spun around, cracking his spade-like tail against the ground, before sending a torrent of frost into the other dragon's face. "**Silence, Naaslaarum You weren't very excited to fight him either."**

"Is it because I can rip your souls out from your body?" Lark asked. His swords suddenly vanished with a crackle of electricity, and that was that.

Naaslaarum turned to face him, baring fangs, that made Lark dwarfed in comparison.

"_No, you insolent boy. There are worse things then death. No, it's the Dovah you have lurking inside of you. He shouldn't even exist anymore. But, I suppose, he found a way to hide himself within you to avoid being obliterated."_

"What's his name?" Lark asked, unsure. Naaslaarum hesitated, and finally, it was Voslaarum who spoke.

**"He is called Kruziik-Thur-Nah. It translates into Ancient, Overlord, Fury. We fear him- all dragons do. But that will not always stop them from attacking."**

Lark shivered- the name sent chills down his spine, and it was already cold. The snow elf paused.

"And why did you guys try to kill me? I did nothing wrong."

More silence.

**"It's hard to explain. Something...**" Voslaarum trailed off, and Naaslaarum finished it for him. _"Drove us to do it. I'm not sure, but we were being... manipulated. By whom, I don't know."_

Lark sighed.

"I spared your life. Serve me, until the end of time." He said.

The dragon beneath him trembled, and shook his head.

**"No can do, Dovahkiin. The most I can do is take you where you need to go."** Voslaarum raised his wings, propelling them into the sky with two quick pushes.

"And where is that?!" Lark demanded, but he could not drive the creature to answer him.


	2. Chapter 2

Lark allowed the water to lap at his body, enjoying the frigid temperatures. Deeper and deeper the Snow-Elf sunk, his white hair swirling around him, brought to life by the currents. Salmon, undeterred by the intrusion, swam slowly past him.

The party had taken a brief stop outside of Winterhold, as even dragons and men alike are subject to bestial needs. While the dragons relieved themselves, Lark watched the world around him.

The sun shone dimly, barely breaking through the thick ice and waves. It briefly illuminated the darkness, before a cloud quickly swallowed up the sun again. Lark opened his mouth. The water was salty, and his body rejected the taste instantly.

Holding out a hand, he gazed at his body. This did not fit him, he finally decided. Long limbs that can wield a weapon would be appreciated, and perhaps a intimidating face and stature, so nobody would feel the urge to touch him. He absolutely hated how people often looked down upon him as if he were a harmless little pup.

Twice it had happened; once when Lark was caught wandering around Riften, searching for a clue of where he should go next. A young woman had reached down to perhaps touch his face, maybe his shoulder; and the other time was outside of Rorikstead.

He quickly decided he didn't like Nords, Imperials, Bretons, Dark Elves... Pretty much anything that looked at him with a condescending attitude. At least the Falmer, disgusting as they were, treated him with some sort of respect, reverence.

"I smell weakness," Kruziik-Thur-Nah snarled within him, the deep voice echoing through the recesses of his mind. Without another word, Lark kicked his numb legs and rose to the surface, filling his lungs with air.

Voslaarum raised his wings quickly as the Snow Elf appeared, taking to the sky in three quick, strong strides. Within moments, his two guardians had vanished in the clouds.

Lark let out a stream of curses, damning the two dragons to oblivion for their treachery.

"Child, what are you doing out here all alone? Don't you know there are dragons about?"A shrill voice asked, causing the Snow Elf to cringe at the sound of her words. A woman charged through the waters, her dress soaking, auburn hair bouncing with every step. As she drew near, Lark searched around for a weapon, and settled for a rock with a balanced weight and sharp points.

"Come any closer, Breton, and I'll strike you down where you stand!" He said fiercly, water droplets falling from his thick lashes. Still, the woman came forward, taking no heed of his warning. Within a second, she had his arms around him, his face mashed into her stomach from her strong embraced. He raised his rock, preparing to stab the damned she-breton so hard she'd fly straight out of Skyrim, when her hand quickly snatched it from his grasp. Lark flinched at the unwanted contact of her warm body.

"My dear boy, it's far too cold out for you to be parading about in your birthday suit!" She exclaimed, clucking her tongue in a motherly tone. Lark wrenched his body from her grasp and swatted her hand away, eyes focusing on her face.

She had to be in her late fourties, the hardships of the land in the form of wrinkles lining her face. Her eyes were a dull brown, filled with good intent; her hair was short, cropped messily to her jawline. All in all, her appearance wasn't beautiful, but it wasn't exactly uncomely either. He dropped his gaze and searched silently for the rock, wishing he'd stabbed her when he had the chance.

"You are so skinny, don't you eat? Come along, child. I'll take you home, fix you up, and get some food in you. I don't have any other children for you to play with, but I do have a garden; my horse stays just outside at the stables. My name is Martha. My husband is a goodly fellow, and I'm sure he won't mind you staying the night. Oh, nevermind that. Come along now," the woman said in an excited tone, practically glowing at the prospect of a son. Disgusting.

"I am not a child! I am Lark, King of the Falmer, and rightful heir to the throne! I harbor the ancient dragon lord Kruziik inside me, and together we will make the world cower at our feet. Fear us, mortal!" Lark commanded, placing his hands on his hips.

Martha's face softened, and she immediately backtracked. "Why of course you're not a child! You are a handsome young man. My house is just outside of Winterhold. You'll feel much warmer and happier with a belly full of food," She reached out to grab his hand, and the elf slapped it away angrily.

"Did you not just hear what I said, woman? I am Lark-" He was cut off my Kruziik's deranged laughter, ringing in his mind.

_This one talks more than even Paarturnax! Kill her and get it over with._

_Food does sound nice,_ Lark admitted. _We'll kill her after she feeds us. Perhaps she can be of use to us, after all._

And so Lark allowed himself to be taken into a hold.

* * *

"And then, I saw this little one, taking a bath in the freezing water! And the dragons just ignored him, didn't even eat him or anything! And I knew, this was a boy favored by the gods!" Martha exclaimed, bent over the cooking pot. Lark sat quietly next to the fire, listening to her recant her tale to the growing crowd in the small living room.

There were murmurs of assent around him, and he huffed angrily. More than once did well meaning mothers reach down to touch him, and he angrily slapped away hands. More and more, the human race was reminding him of the Falmer, with their peculiar urges to touch everything in sight.

The fire felt nice, though, and he was enjoying the fact that people were so eager to help him. Perhaps being in the guise of a child wasn't so bad- it made it far easier to get what he wanted.

"Are you gonna adopt him, Martha?" A voice asked. "Because he'll be quite the ladies man when he's older. Just look at that face! It's the face of an angel!"

Lark rolled his eyes and got up, rubbing his arms to generate heat. The clothes they had given him were the perfect size, but it had a odd feel to it. It was made from leather, black and red, and to top it off, it came with a sort of cowl that would cover his face. Kruziik-Thur-Nah had expressed conflicting feelings about the outfit.

_Dovah are not known for being the best raisers of children, but that outfit is... How do I say it? Not child appropriate_.

_I am not a child. I am older than everyone in this room. And besides, what's wrong with this outfit?_

Kruziik-Thur-Nah grasped for the word. _It is... The brother uniform. The name eludes me, but it is for killing those without a proper battle. No dovah in his right mind would ever kill secretly. There is no glory._

Martha's voice shook him from his thoughts, and she handed him a warm bowl. "Eat up, my boy," She said happily, before turning to address the crowd. She said something he didn't catch, and began to guide the people to the door. The show, he figured, was over.

Lark looked into the container. It smelled delicious. It seemed to be some sort of soup, and he dipped his hands futilely in it and tasted the purple mixture.

It was alarmingly good- a wonderfully blended concoction of snow berries, ale, potatoes, and chicken. His stomach growled in appreciation and he began to eat at a fast pace, using his hands as a sort of cup at first. However, he quickly abandoned this slow process and drunk the soup down to last drop, slurping loudly in delight.

When he opened his eyes, Martha was sitting next to him, watching him eat. She seemed genuinely happy. "No one can resist my cooking. I could've been the gourmet, but I never got around to getting to school for it. No need to look ashamed, now. You probably haven't eaten in weeks."

Lark surprised himself by speaking. "Years. I have not eaten in years. And your cooking is... average." He said finally, using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth. Martha looked unconvinced.

"I may not be the brightest star in the sky, but I know you liked my food more than you'd like to admit," Martha's gaze softened, and she reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. "Why were you out there all alone?"

The Snow-Elf set the bowl down on the floor and stood up, suddenly very weary of all of this conversation. The front door opened, and in walked a robust man. He wore fine clothes, and he had a fine, well managed black beard, and a jovial expression. His stomach entered the house first, followed by the rest of his body.

"What have we here? Did you kidnap some child, Martha?" He asked, eyes twinkling. Inside, Kruziik-Thur-Nah recoiled and hissed at his presence. Martha bounded forward, eyes alight with love, and threw her arms around him. The couple embraced and kissed.

"No. She invited me into her home," Lark said coldly, watching him with a scrutiny. He had a terrible smell, like wet dog, and dirt. The Snow-Elf sneered and pulled back his hair with a piece of twine, heading for the door. A strong hand grabbed him by the wrist, and he looked up with immense rage.

"Where are you headed? Stay a while, Lark."

Lark's blood ran cold at the sound of his name. Martha watched their interactions in confusion, but she quickly left it at that. "Well, you boys have some catching up to do. I'm going to head upstairs and prepare a bed for you, son." She said happily, kissing her husband on the cheek and bounding up the steps. Lark wrenched his hand away from the larger man.

"How do you know my name?" Lark asked, stepping back and rubbing his wrist. The man eased himself slowly down in a rocking chair next to the hearth, fiddling with his beard.

"A snow elf arrives, for the first time since the dwemer enslaved them? I have read the Falmer tomes, and I know of the whole prophecy involving you. Are you..." He looks Lark up and down, blue eyes dark. "Wearing Babette's uniform?"

Lark glanced down at the soft material encasing him, before meeting the man's eyes. "I don't know what a blasted 'Babette' is."

The man seemed unconvinced. "Don't lie to me, boy. Anyways, you might as well sit down. You aren't going anywhere anytime soon."

The snow elf glared at him, rising to the challenge as he made a break for the door. However, despite the man's soft and rounded stature, he was faster, and was instantly blocking the door. A strange smile pulled at his face, sharpening his features.

"My patron has spoken to me. If I stop the prophecy, I'll have unending wealth and power. I cannot fail her now." He said calmly. Lark looked fearlessly up at him, making sure to keep his features as innocent as possible.

"If you're just going to kill me, you might as well tell me about my destiny," Lark began, resisting the urge to shudder. "I'll let you kill me, rather than put up a nasty fight," Kruziik watched on from inside with intense interest.

Martha's husband debated his offer, before finally nodding his head. "I don't see any harm in it."

"You see, my boy, you alone have the power to shake the world. The prophecy says something about you, and a girl from this age, with a similar beast inside of her, working together. It won't be for many years until you meet her, but until then, you'd join a secretive organization, where you'd be welcomed with open arms. Of course, you'll never make it that far."

His voice sounded like a door squeaking on dry hinges, far more annoying than Martha's.

"And where is this place, anyways?" Lark asked, stalling. His eyes searched around the room for a weapon, and finally he settled on a display case. Inside, a glass sword glowed, radiating cold.

The man smiled darkly, suddenly getting up from his seat."Sadly, you aren't privy to that information."

He began to shake. Violently, as a transformation took place, ripping throughout his body. Hair sprouted from his limbs, his nose elongated into a muzzle. Lark didn't hesitate; he dashed over to the counter, slammed his fist through the glass of the display case, and seized the sword. It was light and evenly balanced, fitting snugly in the palm of his hand.

Before him was a man no longer, but a beast, towering over Lark and snarling menacingly. His limbs were unbalanced, large and grotesque, covered in thick patches of shaggy hair, with pointed, brown ears.

The creature attacked quickly, an open palm slamming into the snow-elf's chest, knocking him back. Lark winced as he felt his ribs cave in from the massive strength behind the blow, and he let out a cry of pain as he met the wall. He looked up at the beast with immense rage, feeling a strange power seize his limbs, like in the Vale.

"This is your last mistake, mortal. You shall feel the rage and power of Akatosh's strongest, of Akatosh's bane," Lark snapped in a deep, gravelly voice, leaping forward. His limbs surged with power, his eyes blazed momentarily red with fury. Taking the sword with two hands, he raised it above his head, prepared to stab the monster through the skull.

The werewolf saw this attack, and quickly leapt back, baring his fangs. The tip of the sword caught in the lower, soft flesh of his stomach, rather his skull, and without another thought Lark pulled upwards, gutting the wolf straight through. Blood burst out, staining the snow-elf red, and finally, the deed was done. The werewolf collapsed, eyes rolling to the back of his head, twitching sporadically.

Disgusted, Lark yanked his sword from the body of the beast, turning around to find Martha, watching on in shock from the staircase. Slowly, her face took on a shade of pale, whitening in horror, and her mouth opened, readying a scream.

_"Now we kill her."_ Lark decided, running forward and maneuvering his nimble body over the railing, before yanking her hair back, exposing her soft, pale throat. The woman never even had the chance to scream; he had cut her neck until it exposed a blood-red smile.

The Falmer King looked down at the two bodies, shaking his head in disgust. Bloody but triumphant, bruised but still standing, he looked on with a grim smile.

Not a bad way to start the day.


	3. Chapter 3

Astrid was tending to Shadowmere when she saw it. A flash of white, a glimmer of a ghost. Even Shadowmere seemed disturbed, for he shook his dark mane and stomped his hooves, snorting through wide nostrils.

An apparition of some sort moved through the trees, and she quickly realized it wasn't a ghost, but a child; a child in the guise of a dark brotherhood uniform.

She drew her Blade of Woe, resting a soft palm on the horse's shoulder, unmoving. Slowly, as the boy came closer, his features became more clear.

Pale skin, white as snow. Blue eyes, long white hair. An ungodly amount of hair, trailing to the back of his calves in a straight river. She noted rather quickly his ears were pointed, and he had a sort of arrogant air about him, despite his dwarfed demeanor. His blue eyes were wide and becoming, but there was no ounce of childhood in them, no sweet memories or innocence. These eyes, Astrid realized, looked a lot like her own when she was his age.

Still, Astrid said nothing. She watched with grotesque interest, wondering how many surprises she'd get today. First, Cicero arrived, toting a large box, and now this.

"Are you looking for anyplace particular?" Astrid asked, blonde hair trembling in the cool breeze. The boy turned to face the voice, reaching for the hilt of his sword. His blue eyes took in the scene quickly, looked at her similar uniform.

"I'm looking for... A secretive organization," he began in a light, airy voice. Somehow, though it fit his age, it didn't fit him; it seemed out of place. "Margret sent me."

Astrid regarded this bit of information carefully. Margret, annoying and talkative though she was, did indeed have ties to the Dark Brotherhood. She often acted as a spokesperson of sorts, handling deals involving the Thieve's Guild. A woman of many talents and with a lot of connections, she was invaluable to both of the organizations. In her thirty or so years of service, never had she sent a package such as this one.

"What did she say?" Astrid asked, still holding her blade. The boy seemed unfazed.

"Before or after I slit her throat?"

It was such an odd thing to say in that moment. Don't get her wrong, Astrid wasn't complaining. He would be perfect for the job, after all. And Margret, useful as she was, had been slacking in her involvements with trades. It would've only been a matter of time before she'd meet her end.

Astrid had started to laugh, but she realized he wasn't joking. Surprise etched into her features; this child, barely hitting four feet, murdured a woman in cold blood? And not only this, but her husband... could be rather beastly.

"I see," she began in a low voice, amusement evident in her eyes. He'd fit in rather nicely; after all, he looked the part and acted it even better. It couldn't hurt, this little indulgence. They'd already let in an annoying jester; another crazed one couldn't hurt.

A short silence ensued, as Astrid was absorbed in her thoughts. She finally nodded.

"Very well. Welcome to the family..." Astrid trailed off, searching for a name.

"Lark. My name... is Lark."

* * *

"So you're the new member of our dwindling, dysfunctional little family," Nazir began, looking Lark up and down. Lark began to bristle, disliking how people immediately sized him up based on his appearance. However, thankfully, nobody tried to touch him here, and he slowly began to relax.

Everyone was gathered around Babette, a small girl with black orbs for eyes. She was telling a story of some sort, and it ended with yelling and mentions of teeth. Lark did not understand.

The girl turned to him. "Don't get cocky. I'm older than you; a lot older. Vampirism can keep one remarkably... fresh."

Lark seemed unconvinced, but kept his mouth shut. He had learned the hard way not to boast of his lineage and abilities; it would only end with a knife in his back. For now, he'd assume the guise of a child.

"So where are you from, Lark? Why are you as white as snow?"

The Snow-Elf decided he'd better tread carefully here. Slowly, Kruziik-Thur-Nah fed him lies to say.

"My mother was a Imperial, my father a High elf. Somehow, I came out like this. One day, I came into our house to find my mother, standing over my father's dead body. I guess killing is in our blood."

What Lark didn't say was this: that he held a dragon emperor inside, that he woke up less than a week ago, that every time he closed his eyes he could see the world as it should be. That when he slept, rare though it was, memories of a past life came alive inside his head. A life where he had an adult body with thousands of Falmer at his disposal, a life where gleamblossoms, rubies, and gold was laid at his feet, where he was, and always would be, a god among men.

Everyone nodded, as if understanding, and suddenly, Astrid clapped her hands. Immediately, attention was drawn back to her.

"One of you, show the newblood where he sleeps. I have to arrange a contract for him."

Nazir suddenly chuckled. "What about my sister, Kazira? I've been wanting to have her killed, but nobody will step up to the job."

Gabrielle laughed. "That's because if she's even half as crazy as you say, we'd all rather leave that one be."

There were murmurs of assent, and Astrid seemed lost in thought for a moment.

"I think that one will do. After all, you did steal a Dark Brotherhood contract. An eye for an eye, a life for a life."

The meeting came to an end, people walked off to their respective rooms. Lark was one of the few that stayed, hovering near the pool of water that shone beneath the stained-glass window.

"I'll follow you until I'm dust in the breeze; you do know that, right?" Nazir muttered, and Lark glanced behind. The man was behind Astrid, whispering in her ear, arms wrapped around the woman's waist.

Huh, Lark thought. From what he had gathered, Astrid was married to that man, the one with white hair and smelled of meat. A very unfitting match, but one nonetheless.

"Yes, the blabbering sheepdog and Astrid are married, but he can't please her like Nazir can," Cicero sang from beside him, humming a strange tune. The tune, obsolete though it was, brought a memory from the recesses of his mind, dusted it off and picked it up. Suddenly, a sharp jagged pain wracked his brain, and Lark grunted, holding his head.

* * *

"Lark, run! Daddy and I will hold them off. Just run!" His mother shrieked, golden eyes alight with determination. Snow storms swirled in the abyss of her hands, and she let loose blizzards often. Lark, only seven years old, looked on in fear, watched as innumerable numbers of Falmer slowly began to overcome some of the last two pure Snow-Elves in existence.

Lark stumbled back, watching in horror as his mother was stuck down first, a war axe meeting her temple with a blow that seemed to echo through the cavern. As she fell, her eyes landed on Lark, and the snow at her hands faded quickly, as did her life. His father fell next.

"Stop!" Lark shrieked, voice cracking. "Stop this at once!" Tears streamed down his cheeks, his heart seized in his chest. And then, the Falmer did something strange.

They ceased. The slowly lowered their weapons, backed away.

Lark didn't question it; within a moment, he was at the ground next to his mother, his dying mother. She breathed in short, raspy gasps, gold eyes meeting Lark's own. She began to hum a tune, a soothing lullaby, and reached out to caress her son's face.

"So... Proud," she whispered, a stream of blood trickling from her mouth. Finally, she exhaled her last breath, eyes shutting for one final time.

Lark spent an hour just looking at her face, smooth from all pain, not understanding. He still could not comprehend how something so important, so vital, could just cease to be.

When he finally shook himself from his stupor, his eyes burned with a quiet rage that could not be vanquished, only fueled.

* * *

Lark woke up in a soft bed, furnished with blood-red blankets. Astrid hovered near a wall, leaning against it, watching him.

"You were crying. I rocked you to sleep," Astrid said shortly in a clipped, detached tone. Mortified, Lark looked within himself for the answer. Kruziik-Thur-Nah quickly obliged, showing him what he had missed.

Lark, losing his shit and apparently crying at the pool of water. It soon changed to screams. Lark, the King of the despised Falmer, sniveling and whining and having to be rocked to fucking _sleep_ by the leader of a group of assassins. Astrid literally tucked him in, into this bed where she probably fucked Nazir and Abjorn every night.

Mortified didn't even cover it.

"Can I get the contract now?" He asked, meeting her gaze. Astrid looked unconvinced.

"I don't know. Can you handle it?"

"Yes, I can fucking handle it," Lark snapped, squeezing the comforter. The blonde came over, sat on the edge of the bed, and began to speak.

"Her name is Ka'zira, and she lives with quite a few bandits in the dwmer ruins near Markarth. She's Nazir's sister, so I'd suggest treading carefully. She's ruthless and paranoid, and will most likely kill you before you get to her. Complete this assignment, and you live- then I'll grant you a permanent spot in our organization. Fail, and well- I guess we won't be seeing you again."

Lark nodded, and even Kruziik seemed interested, excited at the chance of a challenge.

"Oh, and one more thing. Before you kill her, or die trying... Give her my regards."


End file.
